'I Like It When You Die' is the fourth album by American grindcore band Anal Cunt. The album was originally titled You're Gay, and the album cover was going to contain a mirror, but this idea was later changed

^ Pretty surreal. Reminds me of a bonus extra on Bloodhound Gang's behind the scenes DVD where 2 random guys act a 4 min long argument from the main feature. And then there's a blooper reel for that which shows how much frustration and effort they put in to actually pull it off.

Recently I have been seeing the world as it is. Trees are just bits of wood, blank canvasses are just empty. I cannot transform anything. My conversation has become as unmagically practical as that of friends who talk continually of their mortgages and babies, but mine is worse because I have no mortgage or babies. Meeting some people in the pub the other day, I opened with the words, "I came here on the bus." They looked up expectantly - yes, and then what, what happened, what did you notice? But there was nothing. I'd just come on the bus; it was all I could think of to say. Even my dreams have become prosaic: two nights ago I dreamt of rawlplugs. I had to buy some rawlplugs. I went into a shop. I looked at the rawlplugs. I picked up the rawlplugs. I bought the rawlplugs. Dream ends.

So here is this record, a collection of ordinary sounds isolated from their normal environment but untouched. Here is a laminator, here an adding machine, here an addressograph (the record is old, older than me). Here is the sound of somebody opening a letter; what will it be? A billet-doux from a secret admirer? More likely an invoice for staples, but we're not told. The office, on close examination, yields an industrial aural environment: the whistle of brewing coffee could be steam escaping from any gasket, the rattlings of small machines can be magnified to become agents of mass-production. Many of the tracks consist of a series of clunks. Manual typewriter: clunkclunkclunkclunk clunkclunkunkunkclunk clunkclunk ding! clunkclunkunkclunk. Bookkeeping machine: grindgrind (clunkityclunkityclunkityclunkity) grindgrindgrind (clunkityclunkityclunkity) grind. Calculator: (clunkclunkclunkclunk) whirrp! (clunkclunkclunkclunk clunkclunk) whirrp! whirrp! whirrp! (clunkclunk). It is all quite ordinary, all quite bizarrely real.

It ends, as essays are meant to, with a summary: the sounds of the previous tracks heard together in a field recording of the office. Then, at the very end, a yell. What's happened? Has somebody cut themselves trying to open their lunch? Is Michael Siegel appealing for quiet as he hunches over the envelope sealer ("Oh, that's Michael, nobody knows what he really does here, he just hangs around with a microphone and a puzzled expression. Take no notice, he's harmless"). Or has the normality suddenly become too much for somebody, has he used his tools against himself (they found his laminated head in the stationery cupboard, detectives were perplexed)? I don't know.